cigar-tin story #133
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Summer cold. Summer colds are different than winter colds -- they don't have the same depth, that same within-you grimness. Summer colds are less death and more drooping, less black and more brown, less glue and more honey, only a honey gone off, and thick in your veins. There is no feeling like trudging along with the sun and its heat in your face while that awful lump sticks in your throat, and you can't wait to get to where you're going so you can at least blow your nose.
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A delightful shaved-head type fellow in the middle of the street this morning, with his shirt pulled up, trying to fix something on his belt. The tattoo across his belly said something, in gothic script, about life. You don't cross the street for guys like this but you do swing out a good four or five feet. Got a light? he looked up and asked me, but instead of answering I just held up my hand, as in stop. When I looked back he had wandered out a little farther, and started harassing traffic.
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Do you own a thesaurus? No, I just look things up on the internet, my friend says. Bad answer. Bad answer and bad avenue to look for answers. Because the answers you get are mediated. And compromised. My physical thesaurus cannot irritate me with ads. It cannot channel me one way or the next, just to show me more ads. Yes, the answers within are limited, but my ways of finding them are countless. I have to think about how the word is spelled, and flip through the pages, back and forth, methodically. Countless other words appear before my eyes. Whole fleets of them. And then I find
countless, adj. innumerable, infinite, numberless, uncountable, incalculable, illimitable. See MULTITUDE, INFINITY. Ant., finite.Infinity -- that's a big word. That could take me all sorts of places, and no one will ever know.